The Demons
by Dante 101
Summary: What does it take for Noctis to be his father's son? A Dark Noctis Fanfic.


**The Demons.**

**A/N: A possible first Darkish Noctis fanfic.**

**A/N: I don't Final Fantasy Versus or any of its characters.**

I don't even trust myself really. I know I'm kind of twisted and evil. I know I have a wicked temper that would take over me if I lose it too much, and it would destroy me and everything else all around me.

Sometimes I like to think of my anger and my hatred as a separate entity of one another, a dark thing that is always lurking inside me at all times, trying to take over myself. I feel so full of anger I can't even speak at all sometimes.

The rage inside me cannot be expressed in words. But I know a way of making all the hurt and pain go away, if not forever, then just for a little while. I cut myself. I take a simple, clean knife that I keep under my bed all the time and slice lines into my body. I do not use my arms for cutting - I don't want anyone to question me when they see the cuts on my arms. I don't want to die at all; I just need something to help me cope wit it. Other people have friends. I have none. Scar, Ax, Flash and Bruce are henchmen, not friends. I have the plans, the ideas; they are just only there to agree with them.

Everyone else just wants a piece of the Callum glory, a share in the fortune and the goods of being associated with a Callum. They don't even give a fuck about me as a person at all. Some people take drugs or alcohol to help them get through the bad parts. I just slice myself instead of doing such common things. I know it's not perfect at all. I know it's not a great way of solving my problems, but it'll do for now, until I find a better way of coping with the hurt and pain. The marks are on my hipbones. Like I just said, I don't want to die at all, and as far as I know, there's nothing really major between the hipbones and the skin. It's an area that no one sees at all much; no one will ask how I got the marks. I don't want to draw attention to myself at all.

Cutting myself helps me to deal with my problems sometimes. For a little while it makes them go away for periods of time. I can go out and face the world how I want with the anger gone - for now. I don't feel guilty at all – why the hell should I anyway? It's my body, my business, and believe me it's better than the alternative methods. I am a person of many parts.

My public facade is brilliant. Just the right amount of hatred for Lightning, Stella and their gangs, just the right amount of disgust for those fools out there. Oh, I know how to make people dance to my tune at times. I know what they want to hear, when they want to hear it and how they want to hear it from me.

They fall at my feet and I hate them for doing it in the first place. I despise most people, they are simple idiots and they run in herds. They agree with me simply because I'm rich, because I express what they think is the popular opinion for most. They don't spend two seconds thinking about whether or not it's the right view, and if they do they are too afraid to disagree with me. How weak and pathetic is that I say.

I want to be stronger, and my own weakness eats at my insides. Why do I let my father dictate to me at all? Even when he can't see me, I live how I think he wants me to live. I'm not sure if that's how I want to be, but until I decide I'll agree with his views for now. I express these doubts to no one however. My defiance is in my right hand, holding its knife. They can dictate my life to me and I may be forced to live it, but I have this secret which saves me.

I don't feel it at all when I cut myself after I'm left all alone or at the dead of night when everyone else is fast asleep. I am angry, just so angry that I don't have words for it, so scared inside I want to cry, to scream my pain for all those to hear, to confess everything, to have someone to save me, to help me, to make things OK.

But there's no one to tell and no one to hear it and the knife takes it away. I slice two, three lines into my hip then the rest with my knife in hand, watching my red blood spill over my pale skin. Eventually I mop up the blood with a tissue or something else.

Sometimes they heal then; sometimes they bleed more than ever. I have bandages if they bleed too much. I clean the knife and put it back where it belongs. The pain still doesn't come, the bubble of anger inside me is gone, and I am content for now.

Mostly I don't even feel the pain until the next day. It hurts, but it's OK. I am sane again, my demons released, my control regained and I can go on pretending for a little longer.

**Please read and review and flames are accepted.**


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